


Saintly Sinners

by BlueEyedArcher



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Brothers, Character Death, Crossover, Guilt, Guns, Loss, Past Violence, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Violence, Walkers (Walking Dead)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor deals with the loss of his brother while trying to survive the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sorrowful Saint

_And shepherds we shall be,_

_For Thee, my Lord, for Thee._

_Power hath descended forth from Thy hand,_

_That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command._

_So we shall flow a river forth to Thee_

_And teeming with souls shall it ever be._

_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti._

 

Connor whispered the prayer in the silence of the darkened chapel. The massive figure of Christ towering over him with piercing eyes. Normally the figure would be comforting for the young Irishman but on this mournful day, the saint was stricken by grief and driven by guilt. He felt as if mankind's savior was boring into his soul with those piercing eyes, watchful and careful. The usual tender expression seemed to scrutinize the MacManus brother's existence. As if his very breath were a theft from the lord's grasp, taken by an undeserving soul. He spoke his peace hastily, rosary tangled around his fingers, each bead leaving deep indentations within his flesh. His head drooped low below his shoulders as his lips ceased their movement. There was nothing more to say.

The distant growls of the dead sliced through the silence of the night air as the abominations shambled their way through the open doors of the chapel and very sloppily made their way through the maze of pews. Each bench was shifted into haphazard rows forcing the dead to navigate the aisles to reach the front. To reach their prey. Connor ignored the beasts and repeated the prayer once more. Each word burned into his mind. The words that once filled the younger man with invigorating energy now left his lips feeling hollow of meaning. Each one was nothing more then a word now. Words gathered into a mantra in which they fooled themselves into believing made a difference between him and the evil men they vanquished. He once thought of their job like that of the archangels, smiting the evil vile demons that walked the earth along side man to free the innocent from their toxic acts. But now he knew he was no better then those men. He was equally as vile a human as they were.

Connor noted the growls grew louder and the shuffling increased in frequency. He heard the sound of the wooden legs of the benches scraping across the floorboards as more of the walking corpses piled inside the tiny sanctuary. No, this was no longer a sanctuary. These walls no longer caressed the lost. No more will those doors beckon so sweetly to wayward wanderer's who felt God's presence enough to enter. This room will echo no more with the preachings of his holy father. The lesson's of God died with humanity. They died with him.

His hands squeezed together tightly, the beads biting into his flesh leaving black dots in their wake. He counted the distance between himself and the biter as it closed in on him. He finished the prayer, breathing the final words like they were his last and motioning the cross in ending. He was ready. Ready to submit to the final call of death. For his body to catch up to the state of his soul.

He raised his eyes to meet Christ's saddened gaze. He found himself wondering why it had taken him so long to figure out there was nothing left to live for. He no longer had a reason to move on. He couldn't bare the thought. His cowardice. His guilt. His failure. He realized he had tried to lie to himself, tried to persuade himself that reality was wrong and that there was still a possibility. Still a chance. But the longer he ran from the truth, the longer he prolonged his suffering. He rose from his kneeling position and dropped his hands to his sides, allowing the rosary to hang from his wrist as he turned to face his demons. To face the creatures that would finally bring him peace. No, he didn't deserve peace. He faced the demons that would deliver him to hell. Hell was where he deserved to be.

He locked eyes with the corpse, it's decaying form allowing him to see straight through it's ribcage and spine to the pews and other dead beings stumbling through the maze to join in on the meal to come. On their prey. The creature's face was broken down the middle, exposing the bones of it's jaw and empty right eye socket. The remaining flesh on it's face was peeling and hanging awkwardly in layers like a partially peeled onion. Strands of clothing was draped about it's form. The clothes all but torn off of it from trekking through the Georgia woods. Connor couldn't even tell if the creature before him was once a man or a woman. This was a thought that would have intrigued him once, beckoning him to create an entire story for the corpse, giving a life to what once was. But now he found the only story he was interested in was the ending of his own.

The corpse closed the gap and lunged for him. Connor cursed as his reflexes acted without intention. His instincts taking over. He willed himself to allow it to happen but with each snap of it's jaws and gnashing teeth, he pushed back on the creature, forcing distance between them. He pushed the creature once more forcing it back and stumbling over a pew. The bench fell back into two more dead and crashed to the ground. The loud bang echoed throughout the chapel causing the other biters to snap their heads around in attention, staring at him and groaning. Their pace picking up as they stumbled and fell over one another after him.

His flight or fight response kicked in. Fear jolting through his body forcing him to move. He backed away until his back was against the massive wooden crucifix mounted at the front of the chapel. He had nowhere to run. His only exit was the double doors at the front that was now flooded with the undead. All of them attracted by the sound of the falling bench. He cursed himself once more. Before in his grief stricken moments he was willing to die but now as adrenaline coursed through his veins and his mind cleared away the sorrows that plagued him, he saw that he had trapped himself. A perfect cage ensuring that even if he wanted to change his mind, he was too late. His hand reached for the berettas hanging from their holsters around his torso. Reflex once again because now that his fingers wrapped around the comforting grip of the pistols, his brain reminded him that they were both empty and useless to him. He released them and looked around quickly.

His mind turned to the crucifix and with a quick once over, studying the wooden carving and calculating a possible outcome, he determined it worth a shot. Without wasting a second, he jumped up onto the podium below Christ and launched himself towards the crucifix, grabbing a hold of the grooves of the Saviors body and pulling himself up higher. His foot slipped as he felt for purchase on the bend of Christ's knee, his heart hammered in his chest as his body dropped down towards the gathered dead. His fingers barely holding onto the arm of Christ as he tried again, pulling his feet up in time to dodge the boney hands that snatched at him below. He caught the bend just right and hauled himself up higher until he was sitting a top Christ's shoulders. His arms clinging to the top of the crucifix, holding him steady. His mind swam dizzily as he tried to fathom the gathered dead below. Groaning and growling and reaching for him. Scraping boney fingers against the wooden body of the savior. Connor took in the reality of the situation. His ma would probably faint at the sight of him desecrating the holy lord. His guilt increased at the thought but he shook it away. He had no time to pity himself. He needed to find a way out of here.

Through past experience, he found these creatures had very short attention spans and with that bit of information, he decided it best to wait them out. Besides, they wouldn't wait forever. They would move on sooner or later. He tried to reassure himself.

       .....................................................

 

 

Connor waited. Minutes turned to hours and hours melted into days. Luckily enough for him though, the sweltering heat of the Georgia summer was already dying down as the season's shifted towards the more then welcome autumn. The cool nights were happily received but sleep eluded the Irishman. He feared that if he dared close his eyes, he would fall from his perch. He fought the urge to sleep, counting down as one by one, the undead group shrunk. It was slow going. One or two would lose interest every few hours and wander off after something more interesting. Sometimes it would be from birds or squirrels scampering about in the brush outside the chapel. So far he's seen a wood chuck get too close to the group, ignoring it's instincts to curb it's curiosity. He's been mocked by a raccoon that was sly enough to keep to the rafters and the roof, escaping the dead with ease but tormenting the Irishman. It would gather food and find itself content enough to eat the nuts and bugs it got in front of him. Connor watched with annoyance, hoping the fat little rodent would get cocky enough to get in arms reach of a biter.

After three days, Connor found it harder and harder to hold on. His legs cramps and fell numb on multiple occasions. He fought the ever present temptation to sleep and his empty stomach growled it's own frustrations into the night. He licked at his parched lip, his head spinning as he rested his head against the wood. His cheek pressed against it's rough splintering surface. He didn't know how much longer he could keep up. The dead didn't tire and they didn't need sustenance to continue to function. He surveyed the group below him, noting there was only a handful left. He tried to imagine the outcome if he attempted to fight them off. He counted off seven of them each spread out around the podium and a couple stalking among the pews. He couldn't tell how many more were waiting outside. His brain refused to process the outcome and drifted in and out of forming a plan. His thoughts easily broken and left to fade away as his mind would go blank and his eye would begin to slide closed.

 

He felt his body begin to loosen and relax when he was torn away from his exhaustion by the sound of gunshots. His body jerked and he felt himself slipping back away from the crucifix. His hands grabbing for the wood wildly but snatching only air. The ground rushed up on him, his back greeting it with a loud slam. The wooden floor giving under his weight and a board snapping under his body. He groaned and whimpered as the broken wood jabbed painfully into his ribs. He heard another gun shot then voices coming from outside the chapel. He heard the biters shuffle out of the chapel then more gun shots. This time his brain registered it as multiple different guns. He recognized the sound of a shotgun, possibly 12 gauge and two other hand guns. One was louder then the other. The smaller sounding closer to that of a 22. The bigger one he couldn't figure out though it sounded close to his berettas when he removes the silencers. Connor allowed his mind to wonder if the people outside were good or bad. He wondered only because he hadn't the strength to move. He could barely keep his eyes open, staring up at the rafters above.

He closed his eyes and listened. The gunshots had ceased but not the voices. A low murmur of concern which sounded female then came a rougher voice, deep and strict. There were a few more voices but Connor just tuned them out. He no longer cared. The dead were gone and he could succumb to sleep. He was near the boundaries, about to step over when he felt something hit him. A sharp pain shot through his abdomen. He gritted his teeth and curled in on himself as he forced his eyes open. He covered his stomach defensively as he looked up at his attacker.

His first sight was staring down the barrel of a gun. A revolver. Python to be exact. The next sight was a talk slim man with a dark beard covering the lower half of his face. He had longish dark curls that fell down in front of cold dark blue eyes. The man glared daggers at Connor studying every inch of the Irishman. Sizing him up. The man's appearance screamed authority to Connor. His defensive stance, the tension in his shoulder, the set look of his jaw. The way his eyes locked onto him like he was scum. It was a look Connor had given many a times to others. To the men he killed. Connor noted the strange feeling he had being on the receiving end of that look.

"What are you doing here?" The man spoke first, breaking the tension building between the two.

Connor raised an eyebrow incredulously at him as he uncurled himself, still keeping a hand over his stomach, feeling the lingering pain with the careful touch of his fingers. He dragged himself into a seated position and leaned his back against the rough wood of the crucifix. He didn't speak. Just stared at the man.

The man seemed to grow more agitated by the silence and pulled the hammer back on his Python as if reminding Connor who was in charge and that he better speak now. "I said, what are you doing here?"

Connor remained silent a moment more. Weighing his options which were slim to none. He shifted, feeling the rosary hanging from his wrist still, resting on his stomach which Connor was sure was bruised. His mouth turned up in a faint smile as he spoke, his voice raspy with unuse. "I sought counsel." He said as he gestured up towards the crucifix with the hand that had the rosary dangling from it.

The man furrowed his brow in a frown as he studied the Irishman before him, trying to see the humor in the situation. "With all them walkers in here?" Connor noted the slight drawl in the man's voice. It was subtle at first but the more the man spoke, the more Connor noticed.

"The lord works in mysterious ways." Connor responded lightly. The man was about to speak when another voice came from behind him. It was familiar to Connor but where he heard it eluded him.

"He climbed up on top of that cross." The voice pointed out. It too had the same southern drawl. But this one bothered Connor. "The scratch marks in the wood. Walkers made them. They was after something." The owner of the voice stepped into view out from behind the first man and Connor felt like he was seeing things. He blinked hoping it was merely a hallucination. The owner of the voice had longish brown hair that swept down over sky blue eyes. His shoulders were drawn back, tense as if he were expecting to be pounced upon any second, a crossbow in hand. The face, Connor knew anywhere. It was the face of his brother but that couldn't be right. He blinked again, his head spinning once more in confusion.

The man in charge turned his attention towards the crucifix and studied the marks. He then looked back at Connor as if just noticing the young Irishman's poor appearance. "How long ya been up there?" He asked, a question more of curiosity, the thought sort of amusing to him.

Connor shrugged. "Few days, I think." His voice came as if with great effort. He shifted under the scrutiny of the man, finding he didn't like the feeling it gave him. As if his eyes could see right through him as well. See his disgrace. As he shifted, his peacoat felt open to one side, exposing the holsters at his side. The man's expression darkened and he trained his Python on Connor's head as did the man with his brother's face, aiming his crossbow at him.

"Don't move." His voice was cold as he barked the order. Connor froze, watching both men before him. "Hands where I can see them." The man growled. Connor obliged, holding his hands out before him, rosary dangling from his wrist. The man gestured to the archer with the slight nod of his head. The archer gave a nod in response as he approached Connor cautiously, roughly removing the guns from the holsters before patting the Irishman down. Connor winced at the contact. It seemed as though the archer knew where every wound and sore spot was on the Irishman and made sure to hit them all. As the archer did his inspection, Connor took the chance to glance at the archer, noting the missing tattoos from his neck, hand and arms. No virgin Mary, no Celtic cross, no _Aequitas_.

When the archer found there were no more weapon's on the young Irishman, he returned to the man's side. The man lowered the Python, returning it to his own holster before inspecting the beretta's, releasing the clip to find both firearms were empty. When he appeared to be satisfied, he returned the clips then looked at the Irishman, who watched him closely. The man gave a spiteful smile towards the Irishman "I think I'll just hold onto these for now." He informed him. Connor felt a growl approach his lips but he pushed it back. As much as the guns meant to him, he refused to allow this man the satisfaction of knowing it bothered him.

Connor's annoyance was soon forgotten when he heard the creak of the floorboards at the opening of the chapel. A soft female voice floated through the air "Rick." She beckoned for the bearded man's attention. He turned, patting the archer on the shoulder, an unspoken order to watch the Irishman. The female that stood at the entrance was an older woman with wisps of closely cropped grey hair. She was small and slender, with a handgun in her grasp. Connor noted it was the 22 he had heard earlier and felt a bit of satisfaction at the fact he was still able to tell the difference in firearms through gunshots. He noted the woman watching him with narrowed eyes as she spoke in a hushed voice to the man known as Rick. Rick sighed and glanced back over his shoulder at the Irishman then towards the door before nodding. The woman nodded in return and headed out the door. Rick turned back around and walked towards the two men by the crucifix. He gave the Irishman one more glance before returning his gaze to the archer. "Tie him up." Rick ordered.

"What?" Conner questioned in disbelief. He was already unarmed, what more could he do?

Rick returned his glance to Connor "It's that or you're out on your own." Rick spoke sharply. Connor noticed a flash of emotion cross the man's face. It was fleeting and didn't give Connor enough time to decipher it but he guessed it must have been pity. Rick turned to the archer "We're staying here for the night." He informed him.

 

After tying him up, the archer took over standing guard of the Irishman. Connor remained at the spot by the crucifix, Rick thinking it suited him to remain at it's side. That it would ensure he wouldn't cause trouble under Christ's watchful eyes. Even though the holy lord was watching, Rick still put the archer on guard. The archer didn't seem to care either way and dragged a bench closer to the podium so he could sit with his back to a wall and cautious eyes on his surroundings. Connor stretched his legs out and inspected his bindings, testing them. His wrists were tied together in front of himself, bound with binder twine that rubbed at his skin each time he moved them. He winced as the twine bit into his flesh and decided it would be better to settle in. He turned his attention to the group of survivors that steadily moved into the chapel, locking up the double doors behind themselves and moving the pews to aid as a blockade encase the biters made a return visit. As he watched, Connor found the man, Rick, was the leader.

He shifted his gaze towards the couple that had entered. A young asian man with short black hair and brown eyes and a young country girl with shoulder length brown hair and hazel eyes. They sat on a bench together, a tangle of limbs in a comforting embrace. A few benches away was a young boy about early teens with a sheriff's hat on, helping a middle aged woman with long brown hair and a bulging belly into the chapel, on her other side was the grey haired woman who had entered earlier. Closer to the front was a bald african american who was shorter then Connor but built bulkier. He stood beside a young blonde haired girl, about in her teens with bright emerald eyes. She watched the archer from across the room with shy glances. Connor's attention was shifted once again to Rick, who's boot steps clicked across the wooden floor boards. A tall elderly man with white hair and wizened features followed behind him. Connor imagined the man as an old farmer, sitting in a rocking chair on his porch with a pipe. The kind of man he'd seen in a movie once before.

Connor realized Rick and the elderly man were walking in his direction to which he shifted, trying to appear a little more confident then he was actually feeling. He grimaced as his joints felt like they were grinding together with each movement and finally he gave up. He didn't have the energy for it so he figured playing things off as relaxed but he found his body was too tense to play it off right without looking awkward. So with a sigh, he looked up at Rick who now stood in front of him, watching him carefully. "What's your name?" Rick asked.

"Connor." He responded. "Connor MacManus." He let the corner of his mouth perk up in a slight smile. It was automatic and not entirely intentional but it seemed to bother the elder man and that made Connor feel all the better.

Rick furrowed his brow in annoyance at the Irishman's gesture. "My name's Rick. This is Hershel." Rick stepped to the side to introduce the white haired man. "You've already met Daryl." Rick nodded towards the archer. Connor's eyes followed from Rick to Daryl who was now glaring at the young Irishman. Connor wondered if he was always like this. He may have the face of his brother but he was nothing like Murphy. His features too tense to compare to the carefree smile of his brother. Voice too rough to compete with Murphy's soft playful tone. Everything about Daryl was the opposite of Murphy. And yet, it unnerved Connor that this man was the spitting image of his brother. Connor was pulled from his thoughts when Rick's voice continued after the introductions. "Hershel's gonna take a look at ya. Make sure you're not bit." Rick explained.

Connor narrowed his eyes at the elder man "You a doctor?"

Hershel shook his head. "No. I'm a veterinarian but don't worry. People and animals aren't that different to treat when it comes down to it." The vet reassured. Connor didn't care what the man's qualifications were, he's had less qualified people patch him up after taking a bullet or two, including himself. He nodded his consent even though he was sure at this point it didn't matter. In the position he was in, they could do as they pleased and he couldn't really fight back, even if he wanted to. The vet began his exam of the Irishman. Starting out asking if he was bit. Of course Connor wasn't. The next questions addressed other matters such as injuries and wounds to which Connor explained he didn't have any that stood out to him. Just bumps and bruises. A few cuts and scrapes as well from trying to foolishly navigate the woods in the darkness. The vet moved on, asking the last time he had eaten or drank anything. Connor, who had spoke reassuringly and quickly throughout the exam had to stop and think the last time he had eaten. It had been nearly a week since he had eaten and his canteen ran dry not too long after. He didn't think to seek out food or water since he had made up his mind and was set on dying. But as soon as death was near, he found himself running the other way.

"S'been a while." He informed Hershel. "A week, at least." His voice quieted as he tried to remember. He felt like time had melted away in his mind. His memories one giant ball of confusion. He sighed, giving up trying to piece his timeline together into one coherent memory and leaned his head back, resting it against the wood. He shifted slightly, readjusting his hands to a more comfortable position. The motion caused pain to shoot from his back, through his ribcage and escaping as a groan. He gritted his teeth and willed the pain away.

Hershel gave the young man a look of concern. "Mind if I take a look son?" He asked. Connor didn't see the harm in it and so he sat forward, reaching back with his bound hands to tug at the back of his peacoat and his shirt, lifting them the best he could in the awkward position. Hershel took the fabric of the coat and lifted it the rest of the way, allowing Connor to relax a bit. Daryl sat forward on the bench, curiously, watching the two men. Connor's back and torso was littered in scars from an assortment of wounds ranging from large lacerations to bullet holes. His body was spotted in large black and blue bruises. Near his spine, over his left rib cage was a rather large gash in his tan skin. Hershel felt around the wound carefully, getting a groan in response from the Irishman. When the vet finished his exam, he lowered the Irishman's shirt and coat then placed a hand on his shoulder,guiding him to lean back against the crucifix. Connor looked up at Hershel, studying the concerned expression that the vet wore like a second face. "Well, as far as I can tell, you've got a cracked rib but without an x-ray, I've no way to know for certain. It'll heal given time and rest. Getting some food and fluids in you will help as well." Hershel informed him.

Connor nodded "I appreciate it." Hershel's concern faded to a reassuring smile before he got to his feet and walked towards Rick who was now talking to the pregnant woman. The boy with the Sheriff's hat drifted towards the blonde haired girl who sat by herself, writing in a notebook she had laid out in her lap. The grey haired woman appeared to be helping the black guy start a fire in the center of the chapel. The two lovers were laying beside each other, stretched out comfortably along the length of the bench, holding each other. Connor watched them for a few moments then leaned his head back, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of people. A sound he missed. The hushed tones of quiet conversation. The sound of movement accompanied by creaking benches and groaning wooden floorboards. The crackle of a fire, warm and inviting. He listened to the sound of footsteps as people moved along the pews, a welcomed changed from the shuffling feet of the dead and the breathless growls that echoed in the empty building. His body throbbed painfully at the reminder. His muscles tight and burning, allowing their protests to be known, etched into his nerves.

Connor hadn't realized how long his eyes were closed, allowing him to lose himself in thought when he heard the creak of a floor board by his feet and heard a shy voice squeak. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the dim firelight that illuminated the darkness that descended upon the building, creeping into the corners and lurking along the edges of light. Before him stood the grey haired woman, her hands holding two plastic plates with a rations on them. Connor's stomach growled at the sight of it. It seemed pitiful in appearance but he didn't care. Food was food. She stared at Connor for a moment, as if sizing him up before speaking "Hello." She gave a small smile. "I brought you something to eat. Figured you'd be hungry." She explained, holding a plate out to Connor. Connor looked at it then at her, wondering if she was playing a trick on him. "Go on. Take it." She encouraged.

Connor reached up and gripped the plate offered to him then nodded "Much obliged ma'am." He nodded his appreciation.

The woman smiled. "Please, call me Carol." She spoke softly before walking over to the archer, who laid on the bench watching the woman. She offered him the other plate and he took it nodding his thanks before she returned to the fire. Connor ate his rations of cooked beans while awkwardly trying to maneuver the food from the plate to his mouth while both hands were still tied. There wasn't much but it helped quell the angry growls escaping his stomach and that's all that really mattered. It was more then he deserved. Not too much longer after the meal and Carol returned with canteen of water which she offered to Connor. He thanked her for her kindness and took small drinks. As thirsty as he was, he drank enough to revive his parched throat and nothing more. He felt bad for taking what little water they had and returned the canteen. During each interaction with a member of the group, Connor could feel Daryl's eyes on him, watching his every move. It left him feeling uneasy but he willed himself to ignore it, hoping the archer would find something more interesting. Connor released a slow exhale as he coerced his body to relax enough to allow sleep to come over him. He shifted his hands so the rosary hanging from his wrist would move into the center of his palm to which his fingers curled around the comforting feel of the cross against his skin and he cleared his mind with prayer. Uttering those words once more until he slipped away into sleep's domain.


	2. Lone Saint

        Connor knelt before the altar in the massive cathedral. It's life sized depiction of Christ crucified loomed over the pews of the church, looking down upon the many empty rows with saddened eyes. Connor held his rosary tight in his grasp as he prayed. As his lips moved to phantom forms of the words as he ended the prayer. Motioning the form of the cross with his hands. He raised his head to gaze upon the savior and found with horror, Christ's body replaced with the writhing form of his brother. Blood ran down the length of the cross, dripping from the nails that impaled his limbs, piercing his hands and feet, pinning them to the wood. His head hung limply and his eyes were closed. His rosary hanging from his neck. His body was a maze of wounds ranging in different shapes and sizes. His clothes were torn and flesh marred by large jagged cuts. His usually tan skin was pale, his cheery features sunken in and his torso caving in upon itself, his body plagued by starvation. His ribs protruding from his skin like it was elastic. Connor felt a heavy sickness settle in the hollow pit of his stomach. The acrid burning of bile creeping up his throat.   
  
        " _Murph...._ " The name ghosting from his lips like the last breath escaping from a corpse. His grip around the rosary tightened as he felt frozen in time. He was paralyzed, unable to move his body. His eyes glued to the gruesome image before him, unable to tear them away. He bit back the burning in his throat and swallowed hard. He watched the form for any sign of life. His eyes caught the shallow rise and fall of Murphy's chest. Heard a faint wheezing pass his lips and noticed the tiny twitch of his fingers. Connor rose to his feet, gaze fixed upon his brother's face. "Murphy?" He fought back the sob that threatened to break free of his chest. His heart felt tight as if there were a hand squeezing it.  
  
        " _Con....nor...._." Murphy's voice was raspy, barely a whisper. His eyes fluttered open, their usual shining sky blue was now dull and empty as if the light that burned within them had been permanently snuffed out. He lifted his head with great effort to meet Connor's gaze. He gave Connor a small smile but the gesture was fleeting as if he hadn't even the energy to do that which was as natural to him as breathing. His head drooped back down, his body no longer capable of holding it up on it's own. Connor reached up, cupped Murphy's face with his hands and slowly raised his head so their eyes were level. Murphy's eyes were half lidded as they met Connor's.  
  
        "I'm right here Murph." Connor reassured, his voice soft, his vision began to blur as he fought back the burn of emotion that threatened to choke him. "Everything is going to be fine." He heard his voice begin to crack.  
  
        Murphy's eyes slid shut for a few seconds then they opened, darker and more distant then before. The corner of his mouth pulled up into a fraction of a smile as he breathed " _Liar._ " The word drifted from his lips as his last breath, his head dropping heavily in Connor's hands, eyes slipping shut for the last time but that ghostly half smile remained.  
  
        "Murph.....I'm so s-sorry." He sniffed as hot tears fell down his face. "Murphy." His voice broke and his knees gave beneath him. He dropped to the ground, kneeling in the blood and the mud, hands gripping his knees as his fingers dug into the worn fabric of his jeans as he allowed the rolling waves of emotions to wash over him, his body trembling with each sob. " _Murphy..._ " The name slipping past his lips guided by a breath.  
  
  
  
  
  
        Connor opened his eyes to find dawn had already broke and most of the group was already up and moving about their day. He blinked his eyes at the shreds of sunlight that fell through the front windows near the doors and stretched across the chapel to shine upon him. He shifted in place and reached up to wipe at his face, finding a small damp streak sliding down his cheek. He sighed and moved his hands so that the rosary hung between them with the cross rested comfortably in his palms. Sitting up and tucking his legs beneath him, he twisted around so his back was towards the pews and he was facing the crucifix. Kneeling, he sat back on his legs and began to pray. Before he had prayed for death. He had prayed for forgiveness. He had prayed for punishment, to be dealt with swiftly for his sins. But now he prayed for Murphy. For his brother's soul. He prayed for him to be welcomed into heaven. That he be watching from above with Da and Rocco and Greenly. He prayed for their protection and for the safety of the people that showed him such kindness.  
  
        As he finished his prayer, he heard the creak of the floor boards and felt the familiar eyes on his back. He didn't have to open his own to know just who it was standing behind him.  " _Maidin mhaith._ " Connor greeted before opening his eyes and turning to see the archer standing behind him, crossbow slung over his shoulder comfortably.  
  
        "What the hell are ya doin?" He asked,his eyes narrowed and watchful. The look he gave the Irishman was one of disdain. Connor didn't know why but the look bothered him more then it should have. If anyone else would have looked at him the same way, he wouldn't have given it a second thought but when the archer looked at him with such contempt, it made his heart sink. He figured it must be due to the fact the archer is practically Murphy's twin. More of a twin then he himself. But Murphy never looked at him as such. Even when he was mad at him, there was always a softness to his features. Something he only had with his brother.  
  
        Connor quelled his discomfort and put on his most confident smile. "Praying." He spoke as if it were obvious. Which, in this case was.  
  
        The archer scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. "All your praying ain't gonna do nothin for ya."  
  
        Connor watched the archer intently, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. "Depends on what you're praying for."  
  
        "And what exactly is it you're praying for?" The archer replied as he loomed over the Irishman.  
  
        Connor studied the archer, noting the cold look in his eyes. The sharp edge to his voice. This was a man who lost his faith. Like a man who's prayers went unanswered. He wondered what kind of life he had to hold the mere act of prayer in such contempt. His mind begged to wander, guessing at the circumstances, some that crossed his mind were kin to the lives his schoolmates faced back when he was a boy in Ireland. Some lives faced unimaginable hardships and many things would be lost and faith was usually among those casualties and in his eyes it was the greatest causality of all. His smile shifted, a little less confident. "Another day, I guess."  
  
        The archer eyed him and scoffed again. "You gotta fight to live another day." He scolded.  
  
        "I didn't have to fight yesterday and I'm still here." Connor pointed out. Trying to fight these people probably would have been the end of him.  
  
        The archer narrowed his eyes at the Irishman. "Maybe it's cause of your leprechaun luck. Sure as hell ain't from all that prayin ya do." The archer's voice was a low growl. He spit out the word _praying_ like it was tainted meat.  
  
        "Daryl."A female voice came from behind the archer. Connor leaned to the side to see who it came from just as the archer turned to greet the person. It was the wispy haired woman, Carol, Connor reminded himself. "Here." She handed a plate to the archer. "You need to eat something." The archer took it as she pushed past to stand before the Irishman.  
  
        Connor rose to his feet, bowing his head in greeting. " _Maidin mhaith."_ The archer tensed and shifted. Connor noted his protectiveness even though he was still bound and unarmed. He wondered if they've had someone trussed up the same as he and they still caused trouble.  
  
        Carol raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him. "What does that mean?"  
  
        "Oh, sorry. It means good morning." He spoke sheepishly. He was so used to speaking in gaelic with Murphy that it just slipped out.  
  
        "Hm. Is that in your native language?" she asked curiously.  
  
        "Aye. It is." Connor gave her a smile.  
  
        Carol returned it. "How are you feeling?" Connor tilted his head slightly with a questioning glance. "Hershel told me you were a bit banged up." Carol explained.  
  
        Connor gave a curt nod. "I'm fine." He reassured. "Thanks to you kind folks."  
  
        "Kind? We tied you up and treat you like a prisoner."  
  
        "You've treated me better then I deserve. Giving me food when it's obvious you've little to spare yourselves. For that, I am in your debt." He explained.  
  
        Carol nodded then smiled, handing him a plate of food as well. Connor took it, a bit awkwardly on the account his hands were still bound. Carol looked at the binder twine biting into the Irishman's wrists and frowned. She turned to the archer. "You can cut him lose. He isn't going to do anything." She said.  
  
        The archer studied the woman then shifted his glance to the Irishman. "That's up to Rick."  
  
        Carol rolled her eyes and shook her head displeased then turned to Connor. "It's fine." Connor reassured her. "I can make due. Thank you."  
  
        "Alright." Carol said, looking between the two men before returning to the group gathered around the fire.  
  
        Connor sat back down on the ground, back against the crucifix as he ate. It was cooked beans again but this time there was meat beside it. He tried it, wondering what it was. Didn't taste like beef and it sure as hell wasn't poultry. He looked to the archer. "What kind of meat it this?"  
  
        "Raccoon." The archer stated between bites of his own food as he sat perched atop a bench.  
  
        Connor quirked a smile at the thought. "Little bastard got himself caught."  
  
        "Hm?" The archer asked.  
  
        "Nothin. Just talking to myself." Connor said as he finished his food.  
  
        "You seem to do that a lot." The archer stated as he finished his food as well.  
  
        Connor looked at him curiously. "What?"  
  
        The archer took note of the Irishman's puzzlement. "You talk in your sleep." He explained. "Calling out a name."  
  
        Connor felt the food in his stomach turn sour as the image of his brother nailed to a cross flashed across his vision.  _"Dearthair._ " He whispered as he sat the plate on the floor.  
  
        The archer studied the irishman's sudden deflated behavior. His eyes downcast, staring down at the rosary in his hands, shoulders drooped. "Who's Murphy?" He asked, curiously. It felt like prying but the archer had other motives. He wondered if there were other people with the Irishman. People who might come looking for him. He needed to be prepared encase this man turned out to be more trouble then he was worth.   
  
       Connor took his time, fiddling with a bead on the rosary. "He is- I mean, he was me brother." His voice was soft, eyes focusing on the bead. The warmth of it from being pressed against his skin. Anything to ignore the images in his head.  
  
       "Oh." The archer recognized that look. The tone of voice. It was he sound of a man that had lost everything.  That had lost the only thing that mattered to him. "That why you pray so much?"   
  
       Connor nodded. "When the world was against us, we had our faith and we had each other." A ghost of a smile graced his features as he reminisced. "We had matching rosaries." He explained holding his up in the light.  
  
        "I'm sorry." Daryl apologized, feeling guilty for prying. He understood the feeling. Losing your brother after it being just the two of you for so long. It was hard. He wondered how the man made it so long on his own. When he lost Merle, he had a group to watch his back. This guy had nobody. He had no reason to go on and yet here he is.   
  
        It wasn't much longer before the group snuffed out the fire and packed up their camp. Rick made a quick announcement that they were leaving in a few minutes and to be ready to go. Connor watched as the people hurriedly packed their belongings and waited for Rick's signal to move out. Rick walked up to the archer, eying the irishman suspiciously as he talked to his companion in hushed voices. After a moment or two and a few glances tossed in Connor's direction, Rick nodded an agreement with the archer then turned to face the Irishman. "You're coming with us."   
  
      Connor gave him a look of disbelief. "What?"   
  
       "You either come with us or die." Rick stated matter-of-factly. "You stay with Daryl. Try anything funny and I'll shoot you." Rick warned as he rested a hand on the gun on his hip. Connor noticed it was a habit. A sense of security for the leader. He was willing to bet most the time Rick probably didn't even noticed he did it.  
  
      Connor nodded. "Understood."   
  
      Rick looked to Daryl. "We leave in 5 minutes." Then he turned on his heel and started to walk away.  
  
      "My guns." Connor spoke quickly regaining the leader's attention and the cold glare that came with it.  
  
       "What about them?" He asked, eying the irishman.  
  
        "Was wondering, since they're empty and all, if I could have them back." Connor asked. "Would do no harm. Got no ammo and I'm tied up like a hog."  
  
          "Why then?" Rick asked.  
  
          "It's personal." Connor admitted. "One of them is me brother's."  
  
          Rick opened his mouth to speak but Daryl cut him off. "Rick." His tone was mindful. "He'll be with me."   
  
          "I won't be no trouble. I swear on me soul." Connor pleaded. Rick shared a look with Daryl. A conversation passing between them without the need of spoken words.  
  
          When their gazes broke, Rick gave a sigh of defeat. "Fine." He shifted, reaching into the bag hanging on his hip and withdrew the two berettas, handing them to the Irishman. Connor's eyes lit up at the sight of his precious pistols. He reached to take them but Rick held on a moment longer, catching his eyes. "I'm watching you." Connor nodded his understanding before awkwardly returning the handguns to their rightful place in his holsters. The familiar and comforting weight resting against his ribs. True to his word, no more then five minutes and the group was packed and leaving the chapel. Rick led the group with Connor and Daryl at the tail end watching their backs. As they walked the over grown path leading towards a dirt road, Connor took in the sight of the many dead biters laying in the over growth and brush. Glancing over his shoulder, he gave the tiny white washed back country chapel one final look before they disappeared into the Georgia woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and tell me what you think. I love reading them. Tell me what you liked, what you disliked, if you have questions and/or thoughts.


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